The unspoken details
by kurojiri
Summary: The dual life that Peter had to interactively live by had its pros and cons.


**I never actively tried whump fics, but since its Fictober and I saw the list for Whumptober I said: "Why not." So here I am. I hope you enjoy with how I interpret these prompts.**

 **Prompts Used: Stabbed, Bloody Hands from tumblr user's list, la-vie-en-whump**

 **P.S: It won't be that graphic, just mostly referenced throughout the fic.**

 **Word Count: 1,397**

* * *

Point blank, it sucked as much as it had hurt.

Getting stabbed that was. Didn't matter what material or object it had been, Peter had only time to thank for his healing abilities for being a thing that existed for him. Those moments had always been tough to swallow, with the immediate pain radiating from his limbs and skin ripping. Having to smell the blood and trying his best to calm himself was not a normal a-typical thing for most teenagers to go through but, it had been a topic and situation that had become a part of his life. It had always been frustrating when he slipped out of control when he wanted to maintain it during his hours wearing his mask.

All the pain he received from his nightly heroic activities just spelled these kinds of moments that defined him in all his glory of bleeding and whimpering in the dirty streets of New York.

Part of the surrealness of his life was how much he gotten used to the knack of dodging bullets and punches to having the occasional hazard of bleeding out of his suit. It had become an annoying side chore. Having to split time between being Peter Parker and Spider-Man, but all the full-time of having some form of being stabbed (or shot at; depending on the people involved) just because who he was. Either because he was the intern for Tony Stark or for being the masked hero, Spider-Man. (Though mostly because of his superhero identity.)

The night had gone fine; Karen had been encouraging and helpful when he needed another spare of eyes. Most of the crime he had dealt with all night had been easy and quick to resolve. An almost peaceful and too of a slow night.

That had been where it had started. A robbing went sporadic when a few of their numbers knew how to wield throwing knives. The vividness of their sharp gleams had made Peter inclined to swerve. He had thought he had gotten it right. Had dodged every swipe but apparently not. The whole fight lasted a little longer the what he would have wanted. It could have been due to the lack of sleep, or that he started to get a little bored with the easier days.

But all Peter could seem to think about now was the pain. The initial cuts had made him wince when he fought them. However, most of them were minor to ignore. He had enough adrenaline to pump his senses and the timing to stop them. But when it had calmed down he couldn't stop hearing Karen with the latest diagnosis and his own body whining in protest when he slumped down.

Part of the problem of getting back up and listening to Karen had been the utter paralyzes that overtook him.

"Incoming call from Tony Stark."

Peter's head lowered as he clutched his left side. "I'm fine Karen. I have a healing factor―", he was cut off by another voice.

"Don't bother finishing that sentence. I'm already on my way."

The second voice made Peter flinch when he recognized it.

"Mr. Stark, really...it's not...that deep..."

Only that the blood kept oozing out for it to be comfortable. And too much that he was starting to get numb. Peter was sure that one glance from him hunched and bleeding would only make Mr. Stark pale and have a lecture ready for him. He didn't need that kind of attention, didn't want to make it look like he was weak. He could already feel the dread squeezing him when he heard Mr. Stark's suit coming closer to him with each breath he took. Still using his coms that was still connected with his mentor he decided to broach the subject again. Peter could only hope that the wounds just only looked bad and, were not in fact, too serious.

But before he could open his mouth everything started to blur.

"Underoos―Can you hear me? Oh, god! FRIDAY―", Peter couldn't say anything, couldn't move.

All Peter could do was swim in the darkness and the sluggish peaks of awareness when he smelt his blood and felt the metal surfaces of the Iron Man suit. And like any other day when things got too troublesome, Peter Parker bitterly thought that it hadn't been fair that he was hurting the very people he swore he would protect.

He could tell that he wasn't in the middle of the city. The smells were harsh; but the different kind that made Peter know where exactly he was. Not in mortal danger. But the one that made him still sigh in defeat when another heartbeat (calm and in deep sleep) was close to his bed. He didn't move right away.

He didn't have to when FRIDAY welcomed him and Mr. Stark jumped a little from his chair. His hair and clothes were a mess, whereas, his eyes were alert as he scanned him. He didn't miss the way Peter gave a sheepish smile.

"I thought I told you that if you get stabbed or shot you would call me."

He was still worried and mad at him. Not that he could blame him when Peter put himself in danger when he worried about his pride and had a tendency to be reckless with his powers. Still, he couldn't deny that he knew better. They (most of his inner circle) would always have his back, and while he was appreciative of that fact; Peter sometimes still wished that he didn't need them to be constantly worried and monitoring his whereabouts. He didn't want to feel like he was just a kid that was too fragile to be anything else but a hero. Peter didn't want to fight or prolong the argument.

Not when he knew where he stood and when he knew that he was in bed with his wounds slowly healing.

"I'm sorry."

And he was. But Peter was also Spider-Man; and he had to stop making stupid mistakes that discredited his strengths. Because they all deserved a better Peter Parker and Spider-Man. The Avengers wouldn't always be there, and as the friendly neighborhood hero in Queens he needed to improve faster. To become a more reliable person for both his city and for his family's sake. He never wanted to have Mr. Stark have his hands be blood-soaked again and again.

Or having to see him frantic because Peter couldn't be fast enough to dodge. He stole a glance when he felt another hand pet his head. His mentor didn't look happy, but he had also let go a lecture he wanted to say earlier. They were both clean, but he was sure that the suit would need to be repaired soon. He wouldn't look forward to having to watch Mr. Stark frown and see all the clean cuts the suit underwent. Nor did Peter like the fact that most the criminals he was fighting now were upgrading their guns and knives.

He could almost feel it become a déjà vu moment since homecoming, when he had stopped a robbing when all of a sudden, his opponents had weapons that made him freeze.

"Kid."

They were both worn. And when Mr. Stark spoke Peter could almost relate to it.

"I already called your aunt. You're staying the rest of the weekend." He didn't let Peter to refuse. "Some of those knives were soaked in some poisons that delayed some of your healing."

All he could respond with was an okay. Because, realistically speaking that was all he could say or do when he remembered the flashbacks of both the Iron Suit and Mr. Stark's own palms and clothes being soaked. The least he could do was sit back and wait for an opening to thank his mentor for not giving up on him.

"I really am sorry Mr. Stark. I just thought I could...you know, handle the pain."

"I know you're sorry. But kid, there's a reason why there are protocols." He clasped his shoulder and smiled a little, "I don't need more gray hairs, thank-you very much."

Peter held back a laugh, as some areas of his lungs hurt. "I'll do better next time."

Mr. Stark left with a small smirk. "I know. Just don't forget that you always have me as your backup too, Pete."


End file.
